


But you were always gold to me

by Scout924



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, American Sign Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic, Especially Bucky, Everyone is a cinnamon roll, Fluff, Hiding in Plain Sight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Civil War (Marvel), Recovery, Shy Bucky Barnes, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Soft Bucky Barnes, Touch-Starved, mute!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:19:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scout924/pseuds/Scout924
Summary: In which Steve finds Bucky (or does Bucky find Steve?) after Bucky pulls him from the river, and Steve will do whatever it takes to find his old friend in the Winter Soldier. Bucky finds a less-painful way to communicate.





	1. Don't Care if He's Guilty, Don't Care if He's Not

**Author's Note:**

> This really just stemmed from me avoiding Christmas and falling down the Stucky hole when I really should be finishing my Stranger Things fic that was supposed to be light and easy. But this happened! I could only keep sign language out of my fics for so long.  
> Title is taken from "Always Gold" by Radical Face.

It’s two weeks before Christmas, and Steve climbs the last set of stairs to get to the fourth floor apartment he is learning to call home.

It’s in Brooklyn, no one’s surprised. He has since relocated since Fury came crashing into his last apartment, bringing the hounds of hell with him, and Steve just hopes he can stay here in peace.

Not many people know he lives here. Natasha comes by fairly regularly, as does Sam, and of course Tony knows where to find him. 

He didn’t ask for much, just a two bedroom with a fire escape, but Sam convinced him to get the nicer apartment with an actual balcony he can walk out onto. 

“You’re freaking Captain America, Rogers. You don’t need to be crawling out of windows to drink your damn coffee.”

So that’s what he does, even though Steve doesn’t even remember liking coffee all that much. It’s more of a routine, something to look forward to that vaults him into the day. Like adjusting to a bed softer than the ground, Steve finds he can only drink the cheap, weak coffee that he buys at the corner store, mainly because it tastes like the sludge he was served every morning in 1942. It still tastes like sludge, but it’s all he can get down.

These days, he can think of nothing but Bucky. Or the Winter Soldier. Or whoever he may be. Call him pigheaded (Bucky would), but he was right about one thing: Bucky knew who he was. Bucky recognized him on the helicarrier, and though no one was around to see him, he knew it was Bucky that pulled him out of the depths of the Potomac.

He has Bucky on the brain again today while he looks down at the busy streets below. He blows gently on his coffee, watching people run their rat race, the streets a little busier with the coming holiday season. Life in this world is strange, fast and desperate, like there’s a clock running out he doesn’t know about. Steve stopped worrying about clocks a long time ago.

He’s been looking right at him for several minutes when Steve realizes he knows the man standing in a group of people waiting to cross the street. He’s standing near the back of the group, face impassive, but when Steve looks closer, he notices the clench in Bucky’s jaw, a nervous tick that hasn’t been burned out of him. Steve almost crawls over the railing to get a closer look.

The light changes, and Bucky’s eyes roam around before he crosses with the other pedestrians, keeping a slight following distance. He starts moving east, going to pass under Steve’s building. He’s wearing civilian clothing from this decade, and navy blue hat pulled low on his brow.

Steve scrambles into the apartment, throwing on pants and shoes, and goes leaping out the hallway window to bound across several roofs, trying to get ahead of wherever Bucky is going. Two blocks down, he drops into an alley and waits, unsure of what he will do or say when he crosses Bucky’s path. Invite him over for coffee? Thank him for saving his life? For the life of him, he’s trembling in a mixture of anticipation and fear, the feeling similar to the moment he recognized his childhood friend under the Winter Soldier’s mask.

He creeps closer to the street, but both Bucky and the Winter Soldier have disappeared.

 

* * *

 

When Steve sees Bucky again, he’s out in the open, which startles Steve so much so that he almost drops his coffee. Steve slowly makes his way across the street and ducks into a department store so he can watch Bucky in hiding. He tucks in between two racks of women’s coats, and an associate asks him to please not eat or drink amongst the merchandise. She does not, however, ask why he’s loitering in the women’s department. For once, he’s thankful it’s 2017.

Bucky is still across the street at a small Ma and Pa grocery, the kind you can still find in this neighborhood that puts their fresh produce out in stands on the sidewalk. Bucky is currently inspecting a plum, bringing it to his nose like he’s testing it for ripeness. He nods casually at the owner, who sweeps dirt off the sidewalk next to him. Bucky’s metal arm is concealed by a black jacket, the hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

Steve stands there for awhile, just watching as Bucky selects a few other pieces of fruit: a yellow apple, a banana. Steve smiles to himself to see that Bucky still has a sweet tooth. He’s still pursuing  the fruit stand when a movement beside him startles Bucky, which in turn startles Steve, and he watches as Bucky jumps like a frightened cat away from some oranges tumbling into the street. A young, dark-haired girl stands stock still next to the stand, looking as spooked as Bucky. Steve chuckles to himself amidst the coats he’s knocked off the racks. 

Bucky slowly surveys the scene, very subtly checking his surroundings, and Steve pushes himself back away from the window to keep his cover. It’s then that Bucky notices the girl.

The Bucky that Steve used to know was fantastic with kids. Growing up with three sisters groomed Bucky to be quick with a reassuring smile and a trove of interesting stories that kept any child following after him, starry-eyed and good as gold.

Steve watches this Bucky as he eyes the girl across from him, and he prays that Bucky is still somewhere deep inside the layers of the WInter Soldier. 

After a beat, Bucky takes a tentative step forward and slowly lowers himself to one knee, reaching for one of the fallen oranges. He offers it to the girl, who can’t be more than seven years old, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Her worried eyes soften a fraction, and she takes it with a slow smile. Steve holds his breath as he waits to see if Bucky will talk to the little girl, thinking maybe he’ll open up to her, if just for a moment.

But the girl doesn’t talk, just brings a flat, open palm to her chin and back out again while facing Bucky, and Steve recognizes the gesture as sign language. _Thank you._

Bucky stills, and Steve can’t tell if he understands the girl or not. He remembers a boy that lived on their street when he and Bucky were kids, and Steve had gotten in a fight with some guys bullying the kid whenever he was around, which wasn’t often. When he was, through a few awkward signs and scribbled notes, he told Steve and Bucky that he lived at a school for only Deaf people up in White Plains during the year, like a boarding school. He learned sign language there, learned how to talk with other people like him, and he only came home to see his family during the holidays. Steve remembers a few signs, but they’re fuzzy in his memory now. He wonders if Bucky still has that memory.

Together Bucky and the girl gather the four or five oranges that have rolled into the gutter, the young girl wiping one of them on her plaid skirt. Bucky holds up his flesh hand, palm up and shakes it gently, telling her not to. She holds it out for him and he points to a splash of mud she overlooked. The girl giggles and with a wrinkled nose, signs _dirty,_ her fingers waggling under her chin. He takes the orange from her to wipe it on his own jacket and stacks the oranges neatly back on the stand.  

The girl seems to have taken a fondness to him, at no surprise to Steve, and she pulls on his sleeve to get his attention again. She points to the oranges and opens and closes a fist under her chin. Then she points at Bucky. He looks lost, but not like the wild-eyed soldier Steve had faced before. He gives the girl a slight shrug. She giggles and rolls her eyes playfully, repeating the gesture like he’s playing dumb with her. Bucky looks at the fruit and picks up an orange, and the girl nods, repeating the sign. _Orange_ , Steve realizes she’s asking him if he wants one. Bucky’s eyebrows raise, he puts the fruit back on the stand so he can appease the girl with his right hand. Steve notices he still keeps the metal arm concealed. Bucky repeats the sign and points at the orange, as if asking if he’s doing it right. The girl giggles again, and Steve swears his heart thumps right into his throat when Bucky gives her the same slow, easygoing grin he used to give his sisters when he teased them.

The girl holds up her own orange, points at Bucky, and pulls her middle finger and thumb out away from her chest to touch one another. Steve recognizes the sign for _like_ ; she’s asking Bucky if he likes oranges. He nods, and points back at her, asking her the same question. Bucky must remember that sign too, and Steve smiles at the idea.

The girl points at Bucky’s yellow apple from where he’s lain it on the stand. She crooks her pointer finger into a hook and touches it just above the corner of her mouth, twisting. _Apple._

Bucky nods back, and they fall into a simple teach and learn, ask and respond conversation, the girl slowly teaching Bucky signs for the produce around him, and simultaneously teaching Steve too. This goes on for several minutes, until one of the many yellow school buses weaving through the streets pulls up to the curb, blocking their interaction. Steve sees the girl bounce onto the school bus, her small hand waving out the window at Bucky. When the bus pulls away, Steve sees Bucky standing alone, face open and turned down the street to watch the girl drive away. To anyone else, he could have been a father seeing his child onto the bus for the day. Steve sees a young man, younger than his years, softened by an interaction with a curious child on the street. What he does not see is the Winter Soldier.

And when he slips back out of the clothing store and walks back home, drinking his now cold coffee, he knows the only thing he’ll be doing when he gets home is brushing up on some sign language.


	2. He's Good and He's Bad and He's all that I got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, unfortunately, is a lot of filler. It had to be done.  
> If you haven't figured it out, the signs are in italics.  
> Also, there is some canon-divergence, if you want to call it that. The point is, the details of who should be there and what has happened may not be deadly accurate to the events after Winter Soldier, but please overlook them should you find any.

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t have as much time to spend at home researching as he wants, because Tony has coaxed him out of the house and into the suit for a mission. He spends a week in France chasing HYDRA leads with the team. Sam sits beside him on the jet, practically bouncing with excitement at being asked to come along. Steve stays away from the chatter, hanging near the back with Clint, who hasn’t been much of a talker since he lost his hearing. He can get by with his hearing aid, but he mostly stays around Natasha, who’s willing to use sign language with him. Steve isn’t feeling very social, but tonight, he’s on a mission.

He knows a few conversation starters: _what’s up, how are you, you feel okay?_ But the rest of it is lost on him. He asks Clint to teach him, and he gets a wry smile.

Clint’s vocabulary isn’t extensive either, and he tells Steve that the best thing he can do is learn the alphabet, that way if he doesn’t know the sign, he can at least spell out the words. Natasha eavesdrops on their conversation, and she and Clint share a quick joke which involves Natasha pointing at Steve and the two of them cackling.

_What?_ Steve signs, face pinched in annoyance.

_She asked, why do you want to learn?_ Clint answers, teaching him half the signs to get the point across.

When he finally understands the question, Steve shrugs. _I-N-T-E-R-E-S-T-E-D._ The serum has always helped his understanding of new languages.

Clint laughs again. Steve points in Natasha’s general direction and then to his own mouth, tapping twice. _What did she say?_

Clint just signs something he doesn’t understand, but he has a goofy grin on his face, eyelashes fluttering dramatically. The thumbs of both his hands move up and down, knuckles pressed together over his heart. He’s laughing too hard to answer Steve, so he yells for Natasha with a huff.

“I said you’re interested in a _sweetheart._ ” She drawls, and Steve slumps in his seat to hide his blush.

* * *

 

He’s cornered, his comm down and he’s taken his third shot. His shield is compromised, and Steve is really wishing he had stayed home instead of being cornered by five HYDRA goons who didn’t like being prodded at. He thinks of Bucky, his wild eyes programmed for murder, metal arm trained for killing. The burn of anger licks up his throat like bile, and he snatches away two assault rifles, breaking them in half and taking out two agents. He disarms another, pushing him down the stairs as he retreats down the hall into the dark. The remaining two agents follow, and Steve can hear his heart slugging in his ears. Even though the serum is on his side, he’s losing a lot of blood. He’s not afraid, but he feels weakness creep over his muscles. He looks over the edge of the stone balcony he’s standing on, wondering if he could land the jump somewhat safely from this height.

He has looked away for only a moment, but at the sound of a yell, he whips his head back. One of the agents has disappeared completely, but one is still charging after him. Steve is grasping his side, shaking off a limp, but he’s not at full speed. A wall looms up ahead and marks a dead end. He turns, palms raised at the attacker.

The agent yells at him in French, rifle shouldered. It’s dark in the hallway, shadows covering the man’s face. Steve lets the cool of the concrete seep through the back of his suit.

Suddenly, a sickening crack replaces the silence, and the agent’s body is drawn away, followed by a clipped curse and another squelching thud.

Steve takes a tentative step, then another, before he’s calling out names and running around to the stairwell to see what’s going on. He can barely make out the soft patter of footsteps, and a metallic scrape before his rescuer is gone.  

* * *

On the way home, Sam says he’s quieter than usual. Banner fusses over his injuries, even though they both know he just needs to rest and let the serum do it’s work. Banner removes some shrapnel and stitches up some of his deeper cuts. To his embarrassment, he looks the worst out of his fellow Avengers, who have come away mostly unscathed. The mission is considered a success, but Steve’s mind is on the darkness that came to his rescue before he limped back to the jet. Natasha comes to sit beside where he is reclined, and she eventually meets his gaze with a knowing look.

“You wanna practice what you’ve learned, or are your fingers too bruised?” She smirks, but her eyes are solemn.

_Sure,_ Steve replies, sitting up a little.

_H-E W-A-S T-H-E-R-E._ She fingerspells the words.

Steve pauses, decides to play dumb. _Who?_

Natasha up at him through her lashes darkly. _Your Savior. Showed up for R-O-U-N-D 2. Maybe he’s following you._

_You see him?_ Steve asks, eyes narrowed in disbelief, because the idea of Bucky donning the Winter Soldier garb, finding out about their mission, and catching a flight to France behind them without being picked up on Tony’s radar makes his stomach churn.

What really gets him, though, is the fact that--if it was actually Bucky--he didn’t interfere with the mission. Not to chase after Steve, not to take down Tony, not to kill Natasha. He was just _there_. Lingering in the shadows.

Natasha shrugs at his question. _I didn’t have to._ Then she taps her fingers against her stomach, the sign for _I just know._ She stands. “I’ll keep his secret. I owe him that. Just be careful, Rogers. Be _smart._ ” She squeezes his hand as she goes.

* * *

 

When he finally slumps into his apartment, the constant, throbbing pain has set his abdominals aflame. He keeps an arm wrapped around his middle, dropping his bag at the door. Tony had begged him to stay at the tower, but he knows he’ll just be coddled by pain medicine his metabolism will burn through in minutes. He yearns to turn off Captain America and just be Steve, curled up on his couch.

Luckily he’s halfway there as the suit is left at Stark Tower for mending, the thick fabric covering his abdomen riddled with tears. He strips out of his jeans and lifts his white teeshirt to examine the damage in his mirror, squinting against the bathroom light.

The bandages Banner has applied are soaked through, but most of them have stopped actively bleeding. He changes the dressings, fingers a large purple bruise at his hip, and crawls under the sheets, stretched out on his back. When he closes his eyes, he’s asleep instantly, the serum draining his energy to repair the supersoldier. But when he dreams, the corners of sleep are haunted by a man that lurks in the shadows, his eyes sharp and wild.

* * *

 

Steve wakes to a shout, and after a beat he realizes it’s come from his own mouth. He winces as he sits up in bed, shreds of pain following him out of his dreamscape, reminding him that they will not fade with sleep. He limps into the kitchen, searching for water and ice. It’s December, and the air in his apartment is cool, cool enough that he feels a warm wetness against his hip as he leans against the counter, the pain only registering after he sees a dark trail of blood on the tile leading from the bedroom.

He curses softly, whispering at the expense of no one. The apartment is empty, and he gropes for a paper towel, a sudden cough sending him to double over the sink, clenching his stomach in pain. His pulse thunders in his head.

He hears the tear of the paper towel, but both his arms are cradling his torso. When he feels pressure like fingers against the wound, he chalks it up to the pain. But when he feels warmth from his back down to his thighs, he knows he must be dreaming.

If he’s dreaming, Bucky is behind him, close, but not close enough to touch. The paper towel is suddenly damp, and the wetness cleans him from the wound at his hip all the way down to his ankle.

A rustling, and then his bandage is being peeled away, and smaller strips of adhesive pull the skin closed before larger dressing covers it.

He sticks out a cautious hand, because if this is a dream, he should be able to touch Bucky, put a hand on his arm or wrap his fingers around his shoulder--something.

He doesn’t make contact, but cool fingers wrap around his wrist, holding him in place until he slips back to sleep.

The next morning, he wakes with a start, and finds the window beside his bed has been left open. 

* * *

Steve naps during the day, partly because his healing body demands it, and partly so he can stay awake tonight in case Bucky decides to crawl back inside his window. 

He toys with the idea that it could have been nothing. Bucky would be a fool to come into his house and risk being caught, and Steve has to remind himself that all of the evidence he thinks he has of seeing Bucky  are vague touches and whispers in the wind. Smoke and mirrors. 

The following night comes and goes silently, his window still shut and locked when he wakes the next morning. Natasha and Sam stop by the second day to check on him, Sam complaining that he doesn’t have a Christmas tree up two days before Christmas and Natasha quietly leaving a bag of chocolate covered cherries wrapped in green cellophane on his counter as they make their way out. The candies are decent, but they don’t hold a candle to the ones Bucky’s mother used to make. Steve stands in front of the sink with his eyes closed and he can almost hear the squeals of Bucky’s sisters, running away from the playful pop of Mrs. Barnes wooden spoon, scolding them for stealing the cooling candy. When her eyes were on the girls, Bucky and Steve would swoop in to snatch a few, and she’d threaten to tan their hides too, yelling about spoiling their dinner. They would scramble under the table, all shoulders and knees, giddy from either the sugar rush, the closeness, or both. 

That night, Steve leaves a chocolate covered cherry on the window sill, feeling like he’s leaving cookies for Santa. 

He wakes in the middle of the night, and sharp eyes peer at him from the corner. He sits up slowly in bed, a hand on his sore middle, and Bucky’s eyes follow the movements. Steve just watches him for a beat, waiting to see what he’ll do, but Bucky stays crouched in his spot like a gargoyle. Steve walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water and to lure Bucky into the light, but he lingers in the hallway, still watching Steve gulp down the water. 

“Are you thirsty?” He asks quietly, holding out the cup. Bucky narrows his eyes, as if he’s offered him arsenic. 

“Are you hurt?” Silence hangs heavy between them.

“Do you know who I am?” The wild-eyed stare he’d gotten while fighting Bucky that day in the street is on him, and blood roars in his ears. Bucky steps silently into the kitchen, moonlight illuminating him. He’s dressed in cargo pants and a thin leather jacket, tennis shoes on his feet. He moves closer, moving so silently across the room until there’s a pace between them. He stands in front of Steve, brow furrowed and a battle on his features. But his stance is open, arms hanging limp at his sides. 

“Remember me? I’m…?” Steve prompts him, and Bucky’s face clears, he nods. 

“Do you remember what I called you? Why I know you?” Bucky turns away, features softening. He nods, like Steve’s asked him a question about the weather. 

“Do you...do you want to remember? Do you want to talk?” He holds out a hand flat, palm up and impassive toward Bucky. 

Bucky rocks away, back on his heel. He meets Steve’s gaze, moonlight playing over his full lips, the soft curve of his nose. He touches a hand to his throat like an afterthought and firmly shakes his head. 

“Why did you come looking for me?” Steve asks, his voice dropping to a whisper for reasons he can’t explain. Bucky drops his eyes, lowers himself into a crouch again, and it takes Steve a moment to realize he’s eyeing his healing wounds that dot up his legs and torso. 

Steve tugs down his shorts and pulls up the white teeshirt, showing Bucky what is left of the healing process, the bullet wound looking like a simple puncture wound. It will be healed by morning. He takes a cautious step toward Bucky, then another, placing himself in the moonlight and close enough for Bucky to touch him if he wants. 

Warmth heats his cheeks as Bucky checks each spot, never touching him, just inspecting each bruise and blemish with his hands just inches off of Steve’s skin. 

If he trembles a little under Bucky’s careful gaze, he tells himself it’s just nerves and not his desire to feel the sweet, delicate touch of hands he knows, hands he trusts. Hands he hasn’t felt in almost a decade. 

Satisfied with his check-up, Bucky stands and turns toward the bedroom as silently as he’d come. 

_ Wait,  _ Steve sticks his hand out, the fingers waggling up. Bucky freezes, eyes on the hand like he’s holding a gun. 

_ Don’t...don’t leave.  _ He has to pause to remember the signs.  _ You don’t have to talk. Just stay.  _

Steve can hear Bucky’s breath pick up, a sound that would be lost on the naked ear. 

Bucky turns quietly, heading toward the bedroom, and Steve’s spirit droops until Bucky peeks at Steve over his shoulder, as if to beckon him to follow. 

Steve sits on the end of the bed, Bucky tucking himself into the corner of the room on the floor across from him. 

_ S-T-E-V-E.  _ He spells each letter carefully, then points at Steve. 

Steve has to force down a chortle of happiness, scared it will spook Bucky out the window. He nods.  _ B-U-C-K-Y.  _ He points at the dark-haired man seated on the carpet.  _ My friend.  _

Bucky stills at that, looking down at his hands as he repeats the gesutre, two pointer fingers gentle hooked to curl into one another. Bucky points to himself, as if asking a question.

Steve’s whole body nods along with his fist,  _ yes! Best friend.  _

Bucky nods, but then with two hands asks,  _ Now? _

Steve slowly lowers himself to the carpet, ignoring the pull of his muscles and the way Bucky scuttles as far back against the wall as he can go. He gives his most convincing smille, willing the sadness won’t seep through the cracks.  _ Yes, even now.  _

 


	3. Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm beggin' you, please

Steve slowly settles against the bed, leaving three to four feet of space between he and Bucky. 

Bucky sucks a finger into his mouth absentmindedly, Steve smiling at the gesture. When he catches Steve’s gaze while he does it, heat curls in Steve’s gut. 

“You remember those? Chocolate-covered cherries?”

Bucky knits his brow and shakes his head. Steve swallows a pang of disappointment. 

He clears his throat. Bucky crosses his legs, curling into himself. His hands clench at his thighs.  _ I know you,  _ he manages. 

Steve nods, encouraging him to continue. Bucky wrings his hands, then signs,  _ Confused. I don’t know who is B-U-C-K-Y. But you know. _

When his solemn eyes run up Steve’s body like he’s looking for answers, goosebumps erupt down Steve’s spine. 

_ So I had to...you have to stay alive. You have to come back. You have to be safe,  _ Bucky signs _. _

Steve swallows a smile, because watching over Steve is apparently so ingrained in Bucky’s being that not even 70 years of HYDRA’s torture can remove it; Bucky’s been keeping Steve alive even when he doesn’t know why. 

“Was that you? On the stairs?” Steve asks it so softly, and Bucky’s unwavering stare tells him all he needs to know. 

“Buck! How the--? You can't just follow us into the field. You could have been caught or killed, Tony could have--” He drags a hand over his face, but then realization dawns on him that Bucky could have been forced. “Did **they** make you? Did you go against your will?”

Bucky clenches his eyes shut and throws up a hand, as if he’s telling Steve to wait. Too many questions. Bucky takes a breath and reaches for something. 

He holds up a mask, one Steve recognizes from their fight in the street. Bucky points to the mask, then signs  _ Soldier,  _ one fist on his breast and another on his stomach, the stance mimicking holding a rifle. Then he places the mask on the floor, away from him. Pauses a beat and points to himself,  _ me.  _

Steve nods that he’s following. Bucky continues.  _ Before,  _ he signs,  _ the fight between me and you _ ,  _ that was the Soldier.  _ He shifts his shoulders a little.  _ Now, in France, that was me. _ He points to himself. 

Hope threatens to crackle up Steve’s chest like a fire fighting to ignite.  _ Who saved me from the water?  _ Steve signs. 

Bucky looks away, eyes on the mask sitting by his knee. He puts two hands together, fingers splayed, and rubs the palms against each other.  _ Blurry.  _

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips. “I’ll take that. As long as you’re in there, that’s all I need to hear.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, but grabs the mask and turns it over in his hands. They’re quiet for a long time. Bucky holds up the mask like he wants slide it on, and Steve sees his hand shake as he holds it out just in front of his mouth. 

“If it makes you feel safe, holds you together, you can put it on, Buck. It doesn’t make you the Soldier. I get it.” He understands the displacement, the brokenness of coming back home and feeling like he doesn’t belong there yet, like he needs to crawl out of the suit one piece at a time.

Bucky finishes the movement and slides the mask on, straps it around the back of his neck in one swift movement. He lets out a heavy breath, somehow looking both relaxed and defeated. His piercing eyes look up at Steve, and he feels like he’s watching an animal retreat to its cage. 

_ Sometimes,  _ Bucky looks like he’s fighting just to get the words off his hands,  _ I feel like...both?  _

With the confession, Bucky squirms a little, antsy and uncomfortable. He looks so frustrated, and Steve recognizes the feeling. It’s the same one he has when he gets back from missions, body weary and exhausted, crawling in his own skin. He tries to imagine the last time Bucky really slept. 

Steve wants to reach out and smooth his hands over the lines pulling at Bucky’s face, ones filled with blatant hurt and confusion, like he’s displaced. And now, when he wears a look that is both blank and full of horror, like he’s been dropped into his worst nightmare, a monster that’s standing right over his shoulder, Steve thinks he understands that too. He wants to gather Bucky in his arms, tell him they’re fighting on the same side. 

“Do you remember me?” Steve asks, trying to start at the beginning, meet Bucky where he is. “From before?”

Bucky stares like he’s looking straight through him. He nods.  _ Before, you were small. _ His hands are close together, face searching Steve’s.  _ Now, you’re big.  _

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, Buck. I joined the army.” 

Bucky’s eyes shoot open. His hands slowly raise in response, like he doesn’t know what he’s saying.  _ Did it hurt? _

A laugh forces its way out of Steve’s throat, or maybe it’s a sob. “A little.” 

Bucky’s expression softens, muscles loosening. Then he gives Steve a memory of his own. 

_ Before,  _ he starts, drops his hands, trudges forward.  _ You told me--you had my...six?  _ He holds the sign up for the number, looks confused. 

“Yeah, Buck. It means I have your back. When we were in the field together, I would look out for you. You looked out for me too, probably more. We made a good team.” He gives Bucky a little smile. “It means I’ll take care of you, make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Bucky sighs, the air forced through the tiny holes in his mask. His hands are on his knees, like he’s holding himself up. 

“You’re tired, Buck. You can sleep here, you know. Whatever you need. You’re safe here.”

Bucky looks away, like he’s considering this. Then he rocks back, leaning against the wall. He crosses his arms across his chest, hugging himself and curling in. 

He nods curtly at Steve.  _ Watch my six.  _ He signs, then closes his eyes. 

* * *

The sun is just crawling through the blinds when Steve watches Bucky’s eyes blink open once, twice, then he’s awake, straightening stiffly. His eyes take in the room and then land on Steve, focused and ready, the rest of his features hidden behind the mask.

Steve greets him softly in sign, afraid the Soldier will be the one to respond.  _ Feel better? _

Bucky softens, looks around, shoulders dropping marginally. He puts his hand over the mask like he’s going to take it off, then thinks better of it. 

He looks at Steve, his gaze open, like he’s asking for direction. Because the mask is on, Steve makes the decision to give Bucky suggestions instead of asking so many questions. Maybe he can lure Bucky out of the mask that way. 

_ Come on. I’m hungry.  _ He stands to his feet, happy to see Bucky slowly unfolding himself to follow. 

In the kitchen, Bucky lingers by the end of the counter, watching Steve pull eggs out of the refrigerator. Sunlight streams into the open living area and covers the kitchen in brightness. Bucky squints against the light and glances around at all the windows, nervous. He crouches behind the counter, leaning into the corner of the cabinets like he’s ducking into a bunker. Steve pretends like he doesn’t notice. 

He holds out a bag of shredded cheddar cheese and points at the eggs in the pan. Bucky gives him a blank stare, so he throws in a handful. When he offers mushrooms, Bucky clearly signs  _ No _ , disgust clearly showing on his face _. _ Steve muffles a laugh. He’s going to have to start making a list of things that haven’t changed. 

He joins Bucky on the floor with two plates and two plastic forks, and he counts it as a personal victory when he hears the soft crunch of Velcro as Bucky slowly removes the mask. He places it at his knee and neatly finishes the eggs. 

Steve points at the two of them, gestures to the food between them.  _ Funny, right? Me cooking? Before, it was always you. I’m still a lousy chef.  _

Bucky keeps his eyes low, but he lets out a huff that could be acknowledgement or a laugh. His lip slowly curves up, and Steve wonders how many more years that smirk is going to give him heartburn. 

_ O-A-T-M-E-A-L.  _ Bucky fingerspells, then mimes spooning something out of a bowl, shaking his head, eyes laughing.

Steve groans and rolls his eyes. He mimes throwing up, because he doesn’t know enough signs to get out the flood of things he wants to say. In another time, in their tiny, wind-riddled apartment, he remembers a lighter man, dark hair swooping over his forehead and stirring pinches of brown sugar into two bowls of thick, gloppy breakfast. He always gave Steve a bigger portion and nagged him until he ate every bite. 

Bucky throws his hands up, a “don’t blame me” gesture.  _ You were always cold!  _ He signs, throwing a hand out toward Steve. Bucky puts a finger on his own forehead and one on his stomach, and Steve crinkles his brow in confusion. He doesn’t recognize the sign. 

_ S-I-C-K. Always.  _ Bucky looks like he’s about to let out a laugh, and then he relaxes against the cabinet. His expression is soft when he points to his chest, then at Steve.  _ Your lungs.  _

Steve nods, his face splitting wide in a grin.  _ You remember?  _ He asks Bucky. 

Bucky smiles shyly, ducking his head, and nods. Steve’s fingers itch to chuck his chin, smooth his fingers over those full lips. This man may not be the Bucky from his dreams, the Bucky he remembers, with his cocky smile and quick words, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love who sits across from him. He will take the slow, bashful smiles and fierce, fleeting emotions. He will take Bucky in any form. God knows he’s not the only one who’s changed. 

 

The radio from the bedroom crackles to life: Steve’s alarm. He ignores it, stays with his arms loosely crossed over his chest as Bucky tries to scrape a stray piece of cheese off the paper plate. 

When Steve hears the first Russian phrase, every muscle tenses as he watches Bucky’s body grow beautifully taught, like a perfectly strung bow. He is almost graceful as his ears perk, eyes become alert, body poised and ready without actually moving. Steve curses himself for trying to be so practical as to stream the Daily Briefing in Russian so he can brush up on the language. 

 

“ _ High today forty-three, low **seventeen**.” _

 

Bucky’s hand snaps out for the mask and Steve leaps to his feet. 

“Bucky,  _ Bucky!”  _ Steve tries to keep his voice even as he sees the light in Bucky’s eyes disappear, replaced with a blank, compliant stare. The mask is already strapped to his face. He looks right through Steve, stepping toward him.

Steve lets him swing first, dodging and blocking with his forearm. 

“Bucky, listen to my voice. It’s Steve,” he ducks under a punch. “You’re in my apartment. We’re in Brooklyn,” the radio babbles on in Russian in the other room, and he wishes he could smash it to bits. Bucky raises his fist, pausing for a second to study his target, and it’s like the connection is finally starting to spark, albeit weakly. Bucky’s brows knit together in confusion, and he swings his fist down harder, teeth gritted. Steve thinks of the helicarrier, and takes the blow to his sternum, his hands raised in peace. He notices Bucky only swings with the metal arm. 

“I’m not gonna fight you,” he says slowly. “You’re my friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and the look crushes Steve more than the blows he’s taken. Bucky turns, suddenly, and puts his right fist through the wall instead. An enraged, broken roar comes out of him. He staggers into the living room, metal arm braced on the back of the couch. He pulls at the mask on his face with a shaking hand. 

Steve blinks, unable to move at hearing a sound come from Bucky, even if it isn’t words, and he watches his friend battle with the Soldier raging inside of him. He steps toward Bucky slowly, knowing approaching him during a flashback isn’t his smartest idea, but he’s never been good at backing away from a fight, either. 

Bucky’s still pulling at the mask, a soft, whimpering sound muffled beneath it. Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s flesh shoulder and pulls at the Velcro around Bucky’s head in one quick motion, freeing him. It’s like hitting a kill-switch, and Bucky slumps to his knees. 

Steve keeps the hand on his shoulder, waiting to see who emerges when Bucky responds. He doesn’t know if Bucky is even conscious. Steve starts to move his hand down Bucky’s arm, fingers gentle and non-threatening. When he’s made it to his wrist and is travelling back up again, Bucky sucks in a deep breath. 

Steve gently rolls him to his back, Bucky’s entire body slack. His flesh hand trembles, and Steve dares to brush his fingers over Bucky’s, searching his face. 

His eyes are closed, nostrils flaring with quick, desperate breaths. 

“Hey Buck, you’re all right. You’re safe. This place is secure. We gotta get you calmed down, okay?” He speaks softly, sits fully next to Bucky and pulls his flesh arm to cradle it in his lap. Bucky’s eyes spring open, wide and wild, as Steve brushes the backs of his knuckles up the inside of Bucky’s forearm. 

“Breath with me, Buck. Come on, in…out...” He counts his breaths until Bucky slowly starts to follow him, the motions awkward and forced. His eyes are glued to Steve’s hands, like he can't understand how Steve is touching him. The tremors in his fingers slowly fade, but Steve keeps up the ministrations, smoothing his fingers up and down the soft skin of Bucky’s arm. 

Steve doesn’t know how long they stay like this, but Bucky’s eyes finally look up, and the shame there is so raw that Steve almost has to look away. Bucky lets out a harsh breath and Steve realizes he’s seen Steve’s lip, the blood already dried and a scab forming. 

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ve taken worse hits than this,” he reaches out a hand and tentatively tucks Bucky’s overlong hair behind his ears, the hand curling down to trace his jaw. “It’s okay, Buck. You won’t hurt me. I'm big now, remember?” He tries for a smile. 

Bucky curls into himself, knees pulled up to his chest and the metal arm tightened around them. He lets Steve keep the other arm in his lap, where he inspects the broken skin on Bucky’s right hand. He sees the gaping hole in the sheetrock out of the corner of his eye. 

Suddenly, Bucky pushes to his feet, running a hand through his hair, and slowly paces in front of the couch. He runs a hand up and down his forearm where Steve’s hand has been. 

Steve attempts to give him some time alone to collect himself, not sure what Bucky’s rituals are when this happens. He moves into the kitchen and starts washing the pan from breakfast, puttering around to waste time and see what Bucky will do. He’s wiping the counter off when the man walks over to slump onto one of the barstools. Steve takes it as a good sign that he hasn’t bolted yet. 

_ Why,  _ he signs, fingers at his temple,  _ do you call me B-U-C-K-Y? _

Steve sighs, thinks about it. He doesn’t want to dawdle when Bucky’s actively speaking to him, but he really doesn’t have an answer for him. Bucky has been Bucky all his life, as long as he’s known Steve. He doesn’t know who gave him the nickname, maybe his mother or his sisters, could have even been his dad when he was alive. 

So Steve shrugs.  _ Because that’s your name,  _ he says, simply.  _ When I met you, you told me your name was B-U-C-K-Y. So that’s who you are. _  He gestures toward his friend. _ I can call you J-A-M-E-S if you want, or something else? _

Bucky shakes his head, the wheels turning in his mind.  _ My name? Mine?  _ His flesh palm rests over his broad chest with the sign. Steve nods, and Bucky purses his lips with something like acceptance. 

* * *

Steve suggests he would feel better after taking a bath, and though Bucky looks pained at the idea, he nods and lets Steve lead him through the bedroom into the bathroom.

Steve wonders aloud how Bucky has been bathing, and Bucky leans over and picks up a plastic cup Steve keeps on the sink and gestures with it in response. Steve nods in understanding, trying to imagine where Bucky could take his cat-baths with a bar of soap and a water cup in the dark corners of the city. The thought makes worry and dread gather at his brow. He opens his mouth to ask, but suddenly takes great interest in the hand towel as Bucky shamelessly pushes pants and underwear off his body, but steps shakily into the bathtub.

Bucky presses his bare back flush against the wall and stares up at the shower head in horror. 

“Hey, Buck. It’s okay,” Steve steps closer, sticking his head around the other side of the curtain. He takes down the removable wand for the shower head and holds it out for Bucky to see. “You can control this yourself, you can hold it in your hand if you want to. The water doesn't have to come down on your head.”

Bucky doesn’t move away from the wall, just eyes the shower head in Steve hand like he’s about to be flogged with it. He slowly moves his gaze up to meet Steve’s eyes, and the pure fear Steve sees there is so raw he almost has to look away. Bucky’s breath comes in shallow pants, and his pretty grey eyes turn down in what can only be read as shame. He slowly shakes his head. 

Steve feels sick as he sits on the edge of the tub and swallows down the tightness in his throat. “Hey, you can use a cup if you want to. Just wash right here in the tub. I’ve got plenty more like this,” Steve says softly, grabbing the plastic cup and holding it out to Bucky. 

A look of frustration passes over his brow, and Bucky slides down the wall, gathering his knees to his chest and hiding his face between crossed arms.

Steve waits a few beats, trying to keep his breathing steady and even because he knows Bucky’s sharp ears are attuned to signs that he’s getting emotional. 

“If you want some time by yourself, I can--” Steve moves to stand and give him some space, but Bucky’s flesh arm shoots out suddenly, stopping just short of Steve’s. They both freeze, and Steve realizes Bucky is holding himself back from actually touching him. His eyes peer up from his knees, silently asking for confirmation with trembling fingers. 

“You can touch me, Buck,” Steve whispers, breath bated as Bucky moves his fingers to rest on his forearm, his touch hesitant and light. They sit that way for a moment, Bucky’s eyes wide and watching while Steve holds his body as still as possible. He feels like he’s approaching a wild animal, full of awe at the closeness Bucky is allowing him, yet a little fearful that he might scare him away.

“You want me to stay? I will, I’ll do whatever you need.” Steve makes a show of slowly raising his other hand and placing it on top of Bucky’s to softly guide his fingers more securely around Steve’s arm. Steve kneels next to the tub, his eyes now at Bucky’s level. He takes it as a small victory when he sees Bucky’s stiff shoulders lower ever so slightly. 

Bucky glances between the shower wand and the plastic cup, and he reaches his metal arm out to push the shower wand closer to Steve. He meets Steve’s gaze, and gives him a slight nod. Confused, Steve holds the wand out for him to take, but Bucky repeats the gesture, like he wants Steve to keep it. Realization washes over him in a blooming heat.

“You want me to help? That what you’re sayin’?” Steve asks, and it’s harder to keep his voice even as Bucky’s eyes shift just slightly, going from questioning to pleading. 

Warmth pours down his chest to pool in his gut. Steve swallows thickly and grabs a washcloth, gathering the shower curtain slowly to move it open and away from Bucky. He makes sure the water is warm enough before he lathers the cloth with soap, and looks up to meet Bucky’s gaze. Bucky presses his head back against the shower wall, eyes clenched tightly shut.

“I’ll make this quick as I can, okay? You tell me anytime you want to stop.” The sound of running water roars in the silence between them. 

Steve starts at his feet, placing hands at Bucky’s right foot and looking up at him for confirmation. When he gets a stiff nod in return, he begins washing in gentle circles up to his ankles and thick calves. His skin is chapped from the cold in some places, and Steve softly rubs over these areas with his bare hands in an attempt to soothe the irritated skin.

He washes Bucky’s knees and inspects a healing scrape on one, then gently starts on his flesh shoulder, letting his empty hand run gently over Bucky’s arm in an attempt to calm him before he washes the dirt away.

“You’re doing real great, Buck. Not too bad, huh? You’re halfway there,” Steve murmurs, letting him know each body part he’s about to touch. He covers his chest in soft, careful circles, placing a steady hand on Bucky’s sternum as his breathing starts to quicken, his nostrils flaring with labored breath and his jaw clamped shut. 

Steve aches to gather him up, one hand on his back and another behind the knees, hold him tight and secure against him the way Bucky used to hold Steve on frigid nights so long ago. Steve’s big enough now that they could reverse the roles. He wants to place a kiss on Bucky’s clenching jaw, the line of it one that he could draw in his sleep he’s spent so many days staring at it. Helplessness clutches at his heart with the desire to smooth the throbbing anxiety that is strangling Bucky in front of him. 

Instead, he takes a deep breath and tilts Bucky forward to get to his back, making quick but efficient work with both hands. Bucky slowly lets his legs stretch out a little in front of him, and Steve gently cleans the sensitive areas between his stomach and spread thighs, his eyes glued to Bucky’s hairline during the process and a comforting hand resting on his shoulder. He ignores the almost imperceivable hitch in Bucky’s breathing and tells himself he heard nothing. 

“I’m almost done, gonna wash your face now, okay? Just with my hands,” Steve explains, running the white bar of soap over his palm a few times to create a light lather. Bucky’s eyes blink open, and tears threaten to spill over their brim. Steve swallows his own and softly asks, “You okay, Buck? Is it gettin’ to be too much?”

The man shakes his head, takes a deep breath. Bucky tilts his chin forward a little to indicate Steve can continue, but his lower lip trembles as he does so. Steve settles his thumb into the dip of Bucky’s chin, that dip that has haunted his dreams for the past 70 years or more. 

He lets his thumbs smooth over Bucky’s sharp jaw, circling his full cheeks and up the bridge of his nose, up over his forehead and close to his damp hair. 

When he's finished, he dips the rag in water and tenderly wipes off the suds, his finger drifting over Bucky’s lower lip to grab a stray bubble. Bucky’s eyes are open and watch his every move. 

When Steve is done, draping the rag over the side of the tub, Bucky holds his gaze with more trepidation than when they started. Steve sighs. “Yeah Buck, we gotta wash your hair.”

Bucky nods, eyes roaming around the room before he drops his head back into his hands again, but his entire body starts to shake. Steve can hear his breath start to come in heaves, and he tries to sort through the panic of what could have possibly happened to Bucky to trigger him like this over getting his head wet. He mutters reassuring words, tries to get Bucky to focus on his breathing, but Bucky is stuttering nonsensical words in Russian. Steve understands most of them, but wishes he didn’t. 

Steve knows he’s not thinking clearly when he jumps into the tub, clothes and all, and tucks Bucky in between his legs. He presses his chest into Bucky’s back and takes deep, sure breaths, praying Bucky will match them. He splays one hand on his side and one on his belly, light and impassive, and hopes the gentle body heat will bring Bucky back to the surface. Bucky’s flesh hand latches on to Steve’s forearm. 

Steve has no idea how long they sit there, but Bucky finally takes several whole, shaky breaths, and relaxes back into Steve like he’s run a marathon. Steve remembers the feeling all too clearly. He slowly runs his hand up and down Bucky’s stomach, soothingly. Bucky’s metal hand forms a fist, and Steve knows what’s coming. Bucky brings it to his chest and moves it in a slow circle, counterclockwise.  _ Sorry.  _

“Buck,” Steve places his hand on the metal wrist to stop his apologizing. “Don’t. It’s alright. Just part of the process. We’re gonna get through this one step at a time.” He looks down at their bodies woven together. “I’m sorry I...do you...do you want me to move?”

Bucky’s whole body coils with tension again. “All right, all right, I’ll stay. This okay?” He rubs his stomach again, lets Bucky relax against him. Feels guilty about how happy it makes him to be allowed to hold Bucky like this, to let his hands soothe him. 

“You need a minute, or you want me to go ahead?” Bucky sighs, but he starts to lean forward, let’s Steve help him sit up fully. He grabs a green bottle of shampoo and turns his head toward Steve, one eyebrow crooked in confusion. Steve chuckles. “Yeah, it ain’t the 40s anymore, is it?”

Steve curls an arm around Bucky’s torso after he has the water turned back on and sets the shower wand to the lowest pressure he can find. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder while Steve wets his hair, gently coming his fingers through the long locks. “You know, some things are nicer,” he starts, conversationally, trying to talk over Bucky’s panting breaths. “Like the shampoo. It tingles, feels pretty good.” He keeps Bucky snug against him as he lathers the shampoo in, gently massaging the scalp with his fingertips. “Even has stuff to keep the tangles out of your hair, which you’re gonna need.” He rubs the shampoo dow to the ends of his hair, lifts a little in his fingers. “Never thought you’d have long hair, huh? Rebecca would never let you hear the end of this.” And God help him, Bucky chuckles. It’s a rumbling, dark sound, but Steve feels it vibrate against him, and it’s like the sun is coming out. 


	4. Don't Take That Sinner from Me

When they’ve drained the water from the tub and Steve has clambered out, dripping water from his clothes onto the floor, he grabs several towels and rushes to dry off Bucky’s body. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, but he seems more relaxed than before. 

“Hate getting cold, right?” Steve asks quietly, and Bucky nods, watching Steve’s movements as he towels Bucky’s shoulders and down his thick biceps. Steve licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. 

He moves to his torso, keeping his face impassive as he dabs water rolling down the tight dips of muscle there. Bucky lets him touch him without complaint, so Steve feels both guilt and arousal fighting for space in his gut as he dries Bucky’s legs, unable to ignore the slowly thickening member just inches away from his face. He stands quickly, takes a deep breath and turns the man in front of him around to dry his back. Steve’s large hands follow the thick ropes of muscle that make up Bucky’s back, and he can’t help but dig his fingers in to loosen the tension there. Bucky lets out a low groan, voice gravelly with disuse.

“Let’s get you dry, Buck, and I’ll rub your back if you want me to.” Bucky nods and Steve keeps his eyes on the ceiling as he runs toweled hands over Bucky’s pert ass. Add that to the list of things that haven’t changed a bit. 

Steve drapes the towel around Bucky’s shoulders to preserve his warmth, though Bucky is already shivering slightly. He grabs a dry towel and starts on Bucky’s hair.

“Right after they took me out of cryo, I felt like I could never get warm again,” He speaks softly from Bucky’s shoulder, rubbing the ends of his dark locks gently. “Even though my body always seemed to run hot after...this,” He holds out a hand, like Bucky needs reminding that he’s significantly beefier than he was in his boyhood. “It gets to you. Makes you feel...oversensitive. I remember,” He finishes, rubs Bucky’s shoulders through the towel and guides him out of the tub. Bucky nods and faces Steve. His eyes are incredibly bright, stoney blue and so open, like he’s finally seeing Steve for the first time. “It gets better,” Steve promises softly, and Bucky gives him one of those gentle smiles. 

He guides Bucky into the bedroom, realizing he has lots of ideas about what he wants to do with Bucky and no plan whatsoever, no idea if any of them are healthy for Bucky’s healing. He looks at Steve like he’ll follow him anywhere, just content to hold the towel around his hips and let Steve wrap his fingers around his wrist. 

Steve draws the curtains, the heavy dark material blocking most of the sunlight. “You tired, Buck? Want to sleep?” He asks, and Bucky eyes the bed as Steve pulls out underwear, sweatpants and a teeshirt and lays them out. Adds a thick pair of socks for good measure. 

Bucky doesn’t respond, just chews his lip and moves to sit on the bed, his eyes on Steve and dancing, almost...mischievous? 

“What’s up, Buck? I can give you some privacy if you want…” He falls short as Bucky’s expression changes, one so haltingly familiar it makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat. 

Bucky is pouting, full bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly, and he points at his back, wiggles his shoulders, and looks up at Steve with what can only be described as puppy dog eyes. 

He’s asking for a backrub, and Steve feels his cock twitch. He makes a show of understanding, nodding and waiting until Bucky turns around to rub the heel of his hand against his still wet shorts, the coolness of the fabric doing nothing to remedy his situation. 

“Get comfortable, I need to change out of these...you can get under the covers if you want to stay warm,” he finishes lamely, and Bucky shucks off the towels, pulls on a pair of Steve’s underwear and burrows under the blankets, taking the socks with him as an afterthought. 

Steve grabs a change of clothes and hides behind the bathroom door, groaning into his fist. When he pulls off his wet underwear, his cock springs out like a damn flag pole. He pulls on bottoms and tucks his erection into his waistband like every other respectable citizen, squaring his shoulders and opening the door. 

Bucky has his head poking out of the blankets, dark hair pooled around him and drying into soft waves. He looks relaxed and open, and Steve can’t help but smile at him, though he can feel his heart pounding in several places. He stills when he sees Bucky’s expression fall immediately, braces himself for the worst. 

_ What’s wrong?  _ He signs, hand at his chin. Bucky sits up slowly, hand outstretched toward Steve, though he doesn’t know why. Bucky’s brows knit together, his face pained, all signs of playful pout gone. 

Steve follows his gaze to a purpling bruise just below his ribs, the spot the size of a supersoldier fist. 

“Oh Buck, don’t--” He stills when Bucky’s flesh hand grazes over the spot, fingers so gentle and soft. He refuses to believe the man ramming his fist into him not long ago is the same one agonizing over the marks left on his skin now. 

_ Don’t worry,  _ Steve shushes with one hand, lets the other wrap around Bucky’s wrist.  _ It’s just a… _ he can’t remember the sign. 

_ B-R-U-I-S-E.  _ Bucky spells out each letter with the metal hand absentmindedly, his gaze focused on Steve’s body. He lets the flesh hand drift down to the wound at Steve’s hip from the fire fight in France. He scowls, even though the hole is just a scab now. He checks the wound on Steve’s side, lets the covers fall away as he stands and lets his fingers run over the one on Steve’s back. He checks various stab wounds like a man on a mission, and Bucky’s flesh fingers flit over Steve’s skin like butterfly kisses. He speaks, because Bucky can’t see his hands as he crouches behind him, inspecting a bullet graze near his femoral artery. 

“Here I thought I was supposed to be looking after you.” He turns around as Bucky stands from his crouch. He squints at Steve. 

_ This feels...familiar,  _ he starts. _Feels r_ _ ight. Like I used to do this all the time.  _ When Steve smiles fondly at him, he goes on.  _ You used to...get hurt a lot?   _ Steve nods.  _ You were angry. All the time.  _

Steve lets himself laugh at that.  _ Yeah, I was always getting into fights.  _

Bucky repeats the sign, two fists knocking together like boxing gloves.  _ I had to pull you out of them. Bring you home,  _ he’s signing faster now, and Steve can practically see the memory racing across his face. 

He takes a step back, mapping out the scene with his hands. Steve tries desperately to follow, but he knows the memory as well as Bucky, like it happened yesterday, so he can fill in the signs and gestures Bucky uses that he doesn’t know. 

_ Our apartment was small, the bathroom was so tiny. Sink here, toilet there, tub next to it.  _ Steve nods, hugs his arms across his chest.  _ I could pick you up,  _ Bucky signs, his eyes round with realization.  _ I’d start on your face, stop the bleeding. Your lips were always...hurt.  _ He steps closer to Steve, studying his face like it’s 1937 again.  _ Your eyes would be black...B-R-U-I-S-E-D. I’d be so mad at you...why can’t you… _

_ Stay out of trouble?  _ Steve finishes for him, smirking.  _ You always said that. You were always taking care of me.  _

Bucky picks up one of Steve’s hands, the one he’s pointing at his chest. 

_ I remember,  _ he says, eyes as clear as morning sky.  _ I would bandage your hands last.  _ He runs his fingers over Steve’s knuckles, soft as a whisper. Steve’s breath catches in his throat, the memory hot and searing like sun on the back of his neck. 

_ I knew it hurt, but you would never complain,  _ he says slowly, cupped hand tapping his chest.  _ And then one time, when I got done I-- _

He drops his metal hand, but keeps Steve’s palm clenched in his right. Steve’s eyes drop shut, and he can see that night behind his eyelids, see Bucky looming over him, his smooth shaven jaw and angry eyes as he held Steve’s battered hand between his own. He hadn’t dared close his eyes then, scared he would miss one moment of Bucky’s pouting, angry stare until--

Steve feels warm lips, soft and tentative, press against his skin. He opens his eyes and sees Bucky now, as sweet as he was then, gently kissing his palm. He looks up at Steve with questioning brows, and it’s all Steve can do not to tremble under his gaze. He nods at Bucky, who continues the ministrations, trailing down to his fingertips, tasting them with the slight tip of his tongue. 

He brings his free hand up to tuck damp hair behind Bucky’s ear so he can see that strong jaw, shrouded by shadow now but just as handsome as it ever was. He puts his fingers under Bucky’s jaw and draws him closer than he dares before he whispers, “Can I kiss you, Buck?”

Bucky stares up at him, eyes round and trusting, and nods. 

When Steve closes the distance between him, he feels like he’s remembering how it feels to be warm for the first time since he’s entered this century. His mouth moves slowly against Bucky’s, testing and gentle, until Bucky applies just a little more pressure. His hands move to Steve’s bare shoulders and Steve sits on the bed pressing into the backs of his knees. In one swift motion, he slides his hands down Bucky’s back and over his round bottom, hands cupping the backs of his thighs and pulling him into his lap. He pulls Bucky snug against him, chest to chest, and Bucky threads his fingers through the hair at the back of Steve’s neck. Steve kisses him soundly, like he’s telling him something, and really he is, because he has dreamed of kissing Bucky like this, sweet and warm and straight up, ever since that night Bucky bandaged his hands. He has dreamed about rubbing his nose softly against that dimple in Bucky’s cheek, as he does now, when Bucky fought beside him in the war and even after he was dead. He could not have dreamed, however, of the warmth he would feel when Bucky pulls back and gives him a slow, timid smile, his cheeks pink and hands coming to cup Steve’s jaw. He damn near feels warm clear to his toes. 

 

Eventually, they climb under the covers together, Steve on his back, one arm spread open in Bucky’s direction, inviting. They both feel a little bashful, all blushing and stuttering motions, until Bucky tentatively rests his head in the crook of Steve’s shoulder, warm cheek pressed against his chest and soft hair tickling Steve’s nose. He smiles up at Steve and signs,  _ Did we ever do that? Before? _

Steve shakes his head.  _ No. But I always wanted to.  _ Bucky nods, like he remembers that he did, too. Bucky raises his hand, like he wants to ask a question, and Steve nods for him to go on. 

_ Tell me more about our old life. When we used to live in that apartment. I want to remember.  _

Steve lets out a sigh, his right hand curling around to rub Bucky’s side softly. 

“I’ll tell you all the stories you’ll listen to, Buck. Hm...let’s see, it was one day where it was so freakin’ cold, sleeting up a storm…”

Bucky listens until his eyes drift shut, lulled to sleep by the rumble of Steve’s voice underneath him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could really end here, but I just had to add a little twist of angst in there. Last chapter coming soon, I promise it's a happy ending!


	5. I Just Want to Take Him Home

The room is almost completely dark when Bucky jolts out of the nightmare, hand immediately going to his mouth out of habit. The mask is not there, and his metal hand clenches and unclenches against strange flesh. He slowly moves away from the body he’s pressed up against, sliding onto his feet on the floor. 

He sees Steve Rogers sleeping heavily on the bed, soft snores coming from his open mouth. He’s disoriented, color splotches flashing before his eyes and head pounding so hard he rubs his palms into his eyes, brain desperately searching for his next mission, the goal he is to be working toward. He is the Soldier, he is efficient, he has perfect execution, he is ready to--

His memories of Steve’s gentle touches and kind treatment over the past day bleed into his memory, fighting for space with the Soldier’s urging commands. He staggers into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face. Recoils at the temperature. 

He stares at himself in the mirror, surprised at what he sees there. His cheeks are flushed, the first color he’s noticed there in a long time. His hair looks clean, if not mussed with sleep. He avoids the angry pink scar tissue that separates flesh from cyborg. Suddenly, even the light from the tiny nightlight in the bathroom is too harsh, and he darts back into the bedroom, eyes screwed shut. 

Nausea hits him anew, and he’s pulled back into remembering the nightmare like a drowning man is sucked into the waves. 

His arms are bound, metal wrapped around his biceps to hold him in place, plastic brace in his mouth so he won’t bite down on his tongue. The motions are familiar, as are the commands and chatter in Russian around him. This treatment is common, happens every time he is not 100% compliant, that he remembers something of James Buchanan Barnes. He waits for the metal to come down on his temple and jaw, sticky with jelly. What he feels instead, are soft, kind fingertips, slick with soap. Steve leans down over him, white lab coat open and brushing against Bucky’s bare chest. “Just with my hands,” he says, a reassuring smile on his face. Bucky tries to snatch his hands away, tries to tell Steve to run, to get the hell out of here, and then he’s repeating it in Russian, “ _ Just my hands, just my hands,”  _ and Bucky’s howling in pain, crying out because of all the things they had to use against him, why did it have to be Stevie?

When he opens his eyes, he only hears his heavy breathing, and he finds himself in Steve’s living room on hands and knees. He stills, waiting to hear if Steve has stirred, but by some miracle he can still hear his breathing from the bedroom. Bucky steps softly back into the bedroom, grabbing his shoes and a discarded sweatshirt as he goes, and peers over at Steve again. He looks so young when he sleeps, like the skinny, angry twerp that plagues Bucky’s mind. The face that makes him struggle to snuff out the Soldier the hardest, because that face reminds him that he has another mission, another reason to fight. A person to protect. 

But then Bucky sees the dark purple bruise loom up through the darkness on Steve’s abdomen, a reminder that the Soldier is still alive and well, and lurking just below the surface of his very skin. He hears Steve’s voice tell him that it’s nothing, it’ll be healed by morning, but Bucky’s gut churns in disgust. 

He can’t stay here and play house with Steve like they’re just two Brooklyn boys trying to get by, not when one of them is a Russian slur away from killing the other. He takes Steve in, his strong, healthy body no longer crippled by cold and asthmatic fits. 

Another memory rushes to the surface, one from the war. He remembers standing by Steve’s side, drinking him in in his new form, blonde hair neatly styled and filling out his uniform in a way that made Bucky’s mouth bone dry despite the drink in his hand. A dame, her body beautifully curved, comes in with eyes only for Steve. They share a knowing word and look, and the same fear he feels now stabs at Bucky’s gut like it did then. Steve doesn’t need him. He doesn’t need him to kiss his bloody knuckles or flirt with him like he’s the prettiest dame on the block. He doesn’t need him to keep him warm at night, and he certainly doesn’t need him breaking his ribs in the process.

Bucky slips out the balcony doors and into the frigid winter night. 

 

He takes in his surroundings in a way he hasn’t in years. He notices that the streets are busier than normal, which puts in on edge. He flips up the collar of his jacket, thankful he grabbed it on his way out. He cuts down an alley, dodging crumpled men against dumpsters and piles of dirty slush. He tries not to think about how he will join the broken men collected in the alleys tonight to sleep. 

When he reaches the end of the alley, he immediately crosses the street, keeping his head down against the cold and probing eyes that he feels everywhere. 

It’s this that causes him to run into another person, small, warm hands coming to grab at his forearms. Bucky’s eyes are wild, and he makes to move away when he sees a small smile peer up at him from beneath a ridiculously large scarf. 

_ Hey!  _ The little girl waves at him.  _ You’re back! Are you coming to church?  _ She points behind her, dark curls escaping from her matching winter hat. Bucky recognizes the Deaf girl from the fruit stand that he keeps managing to run into. He prays she’s not HYDRA. 

He shakes his head, mind clearing to focus on her. 

_ Why not? Why are you alone?  _ She asks, looking behind Bucky for another person.  _ Where’s your family? _

He shrugs, looks around her, eyes guarded.  _ Home,  _ he finally decides to answer. 

_ It’s Christmas Eve!  _ She practically shouts with her hands, the signs big and sweeping.  _ You can’t be alone!  _

She stops, and gives Bucky a knowing look.  _ Are you and your boyfriend fighting? _

Bucky cocks an eyebrow at her.  _ Boyfriend?  _ He asks, the conversation jarring him out of his reverie. Boys didn’t even talk about boyfriends, did they? How did she---?

_ That blonde man, he watches over you. I think he likes you.  _ She winks at him and nudges his shoulder. Bucky can only stare at her dumbly. 

Inside the church, it’s large and colorful stained glass windows dancing with candlelight, he hears an organ begin to play. He looks down at the girl, whom he knows can’t hear the sound. 

He points toward the building.  _ Service is starting,  _ he says. 

_ I’m not leaving you here alone. It’s cold! And it’s--- _

_ Christmas Eve,  _ he signs, the sign like a large wreath.  _ I know.  _

He hears footsteps crunching through the slush behind him in a run, and he darts around, throwing the little girl behind his back. Steve runs up to him, breathing lightly, his cheeks pink with cold. Behind his back, the little girl lightly pinches the exposed skin of his flesh hand with her fingers, and she jumps around to see Steve. 

_ Hi!  _ She waves brightly, and Steve smiles, waving back.  _ I found your friend,  _ she signs, and Bucky realizes how good a sign it really is, two of the same fingers bending a little to fit snugly around one another. Steve nods, crouches a little to get to her level. 

_ Thank you.  _ He signs. Her eyes widen in surprise that he can communicate with her. Steve thumbs over at Bucky.  _ He’s my best friend. Wouldn’t want to lose him.  _

She purses her lips, scolding.  _ It’s Christmas Eve, did you know? You can’t be alone on Christmas!  _

A woman sticks her head out of a side door, waving to get the girls attention. She looks suspiciously at the two men as she beckons the girl inside, her face guarded and fearful. Recognition washes over her face as the girl runs over. 

She points at Steve, and the girl follows her gaze.  _ That’s Captain America! _ The woman signs, her hands flying. 

The little girl shrugs, nods smugly.  _ I know,  _ she signs, brushing off the woman.  _ He’s my friend.  _

Steve chuckles and glances at Bucky, who watches the little girl with an open expression. She turns back at the last minute to add  _ Merry Christmas! _ before she dashes inside, the door closing with a loud  _ thud _ behind the pair. 

_ Merry Christmas _ , Bucky signs with one hand, watching wistfully after the girl. 

Steve puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Buck, what are you doing out here? You could have stayed...did I--?

Bucky holds up a hand, takes a step away from Steve.  _ You know I can’t stay there. I’m different now, I’m not B- _

Steve’s hand closes around Bucky’s, cutting him off. “Don’t say it. I know who you are. I know who you were, and I know who you are now. You don’t have to be the person you used to be, and  you don’t have to be the person you want to be. But you don’t have to do this alone, Buck.”

_ I can’t even  _ **_talk_ ** _ to you, I can’t even use my own voice!  _ Bucky signs so forcefully he scratches the fingers of his pointer and middle finger up his throat.  _ I attacked you in your own house! You don’t need me. _ He turns to go, to weave quickly into the crowd on the sidewalk, but Steve grabs him by the shoulders, his breath hot at Bucky’s ears. 

“I don’t  **need** you? You really think that Buck?” He waits a beat, waiting for Bucky to answer. When he doesn’t, Steve continues. “I have always needed you. May not be for the same reasons, sure. I’m bigger now, I win a few more fights, but you are  **home** to me, Buck. You’re the only home I know. I’m lost too, you know? When you died I--” And Bucky whirls around when Steve’s voice breaks. Steve smiles at him through wet eyes. “God, I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know what to do...I feel like I’ve been bouncing around from place to place until I saw you that day in the street. So no, I don’t care if you’re the Soldier every morning and beat me over the head with the frying pan, Buck. Just come home and let me live in a world where you exist. Heal however you need to, take all the time you want.  _ Please,”  _ he begs, flat palm clawing a circle across his broad chest. 

Bucky sniffles, pretends it’s from the cold. He slides his hand into Steve’s, surprised at how warm his palm is. He folds into Steve’s chest, smiles through the tears when he feels Steve press a kiss into his hair. They stand like that in the snow for awhile, clinging to each other. Steve pulls away and nods his head over at the church. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he says with a soft smile. “Midnight mass. Remember we used to go every year, sit in the back and pass notes? Ma used to pinch us on the back of the neck if she caught us.”

Bucky lets out a low chuckle, puts the flesh hand on the back of his neck like he remembers. He nods at Steve, who tucks him under his arm and they walk in together. 

They find a seat in the back, only a ragged looking man sits down at the other end of the pew. 

The organ plays loudly, and the heavy music calms Bucky, surprising to Steve, who asks if he’s uncomfortable with all the people and the noise. 

They face the front like good Catholic boys, until Steve taps the back of Bucky’s hand and passes him a note scribbled on the program.

 

Why did you come find me when you didn’t even know who you were? Why come find me? Why protect me on the mission...watch over me from the city? 

 

Bucky purses his lips when he sees Steve’s passing notes, tutting and wagging a finger like Mrs. Barnes would. Steve presses his face into his fist to hide a smile. 

Bucky reads through the note several times before scribbling out a response. When he places it back in Steve’s lap and he folds out the creases, he reads,

 

"I don’t remember who I am, and I don’t remember why I’m here, but I know I’m supposed to be with you. That’s all I remember, so I’ve been hanging onto it as long as I can.”

 

Steve looks up into the choir loft, blinking back tears. He nods.

 

"Don’t get mushy on me, Rogers,"

 

Bucky reaches over and scribbles. He winks at Steve and grabs a hymnal as the church fills with sound, like the heavens have opened up to share the good news right here in Brooklyn. Steve bumps Bucky’s shoulders against his own, and he thinks perhaps maybe it has. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! This is my first Stucky fic, and the first fic I have completed in a long time, even though it wasn't supposed to be some five chapter monstrosity. Thank you for all who read and left love here, you are greatly appreciated! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!


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